Posts for June 21, 2026 (page 2)

Poets are obsolete      unnecessary   passe?
Anybody can write a poem with help from
the artificial poet inside a computer
Is it possible to concoct intelligence?
Can it be named artificial?  

If I asked (A) (I), to comfort me at
two a m when it is dark and sleep eludes me
would it say yes or no or maybe?  

A real live poet could do that
take me in their arms and soothe me
with soft words and maybe even sing to me
A real live poet can do that and so much more  

They might be cantankerous and weep sometimes
When they incant their poems I am transported
Never mind they occasionally throw things
It is my turn to speak softly and assure them of their worth.              

For the rock band, the Wonder Years~

I am my ’03 Honda Accord,
v6 engine, leather seats, double
dented bumpers, flying up Lock Road
-like a barrel hucked down river- 
careening onto Gillock, catching the yellow
at the high school light, barely skirting 
into the parking lot on time. 

In my 6 disc changer, Suburbia I’ve Given
You all And Now I’m Nothing rattles angsty
through the floorboards. I am energetic 
washed-up, yearning, jaded, and seventeen. 

I am a borrowed pressure washer,
cord strung through a cracked kitchen
window screen, coiling in heaps beneath
slipping flip flop feet. Water erupts, blasts dust
and grime from butter yellow plastic siding, slinking
in streams into cracked asphalt, blessing opportunistic
hackberry saplings below.

The neighbors are a showdow cast, pacing
their daily blocking, feigning not to notice
the woman struggling with the convivial
upkeep of her home. Tired, twenty eight,
and still trying too hard. 

Came Out Swinging slams across overhead
bluetooth headphones. Together we sing
of aging ghosts. Dan Campbell has kids now,
and here I am, greeting not-quite-the-suburbs
through gritted polished teeth.

Bad Dreams And The Wrong Side Of The Bed

I awoke this morning,

After a long and sleepless night,

Prepared to meet my day,

And thought hard on things to write,

But try as I might,

It was harder than it seems,

Haunted all morning,

By the previous night’s dreams.

I was called on to be a speaker,

And bless a table full of food,

I told myself that I could do it,

And knew what to say right where I stood.

But when I raised my head,

To speak the things I had  known,

I gazed about the table,

Only to find myself alone.

But then I perceived,

Standing at the other end,

A man, dark and gnarled,

A spiteful bitter friend,

He laughed at me and mocked me,

And asked, “Why don’t you drone?”

You’ve spewed so much dull dry speech,

You now find yourself alone.”

He waved his hand over the table,

And then slapped it until the dishes jumped,

Then said, “Besides all that,

Your gravy’s full of lumps.” 

Well, I awoke and shook myself,

Feeling angry as could be,

Then I had a recollection,

“To hell with him, I write and cook for me.” 

Lilac tastes of spring
Flags twirl to the beat of the drumline
Withering too quickly for the bouquet
Welcoming spring to the valley of the Genesee
Hanging heavy outside our bridal bedroom
Worry about the bloom
And its link to the fate of our marriage
Memories linger on tongue and heart

Maacah’s Letter to Her Husband David

Fall to your knees and thank God, that your son doesn’t yet know he can kick your ass.
He is two heads taller, twice as broad through the chest, with arms long enough to wrap around your triple-chinned neck half a dozen times. And he hates you. He sees you, King David, and recognizes what you are — a hypocrite, a tyrant, collicky baby with an army-commanding temper. 

Hang your mouth in fear, bulge your eyes in recognition that your deathbed was dressed with the very fabrics you selected, each sheet and fold a chain you forged yourself.
Absalom raises his armies against you — stumble before them, hobbled by your own pride.
Witness me, your lawful loyal firstly loving wife in the vanguard of the calvary tasked to take your head.

Despair, David the King. Despair, David the Corrupted. Despair, David the Liar.

Despair, and ask yourself:

Why does every pre-diabetic, hypertensioned, prematurely gray, blue eyed man with a whopping five foot six inches (or less) to his name think he’s a fucking king?

And what kind of man would look at a rock, pick up a chisel, and carve “Honor me?”

We shuffled in sideways
Compact on a perch
Surrounded by Wrens chirping
This must be their Church

A Boutique Cafe
A group visit for the day
We just arrived, yet I knew
I don’t want to stay

My friends said,
(—though reading lips I cannot boast):
“you’ll Love it!—just
order Avocado Toast!”

Everyone seemed to talk all at once
Word collages fillied the air
I continued to wish
that I wasn’t there

Aviary Entrapment!
Until luncheon was done
I wrote poems in my head
for survival and fun!

a Father’s Day ode
but all that comes out is grief
I snooze the alarm

The way everyone is stressed 
has me in reflection.
I made good choices, 
so I avoid depression-
but it creeps in
when I see others cry
on this twisted planet
from my moon rock in the sky. 

Everyday I blast-off
and hover around;
why are so many people feeling down? 
Is it the world we live in, 
or is it just how they feel in their skin? 
In a world full of woes, 
I’d rather be on my UFO. 

I have a small grandson,
Quinn.
He serves ice cream
from the crisp, clean air.
He knows not the day,
the forecast, or the year.
I pray his at-play, at-peace
lasts a good long while—
that he remembers
this ease
when today’s formal
education creeps
in to teach,
to introduce him
to inhumanity.